Washing Machine Charlie
by jodm
Summary: Daily bombing raids spell trouble for the Black Sheep. Add in McHale and the crew of PT 73 and a young Marine named Mike Stone and the adventure begins!
1. Chapter 1

_The Streets of San Francisco, McHale's Navy, and Black Sheep Squadron / Baa, Baa Black Sheep belong to others. No copyright infringement is intended._

**WASHING MACHINE CHARLIE**

_**Act 1**_

_**SFPD, 1973**_

Steve Keller ambled into his partner's office, two cups of coffee in hand. Depositing one on the cluttered desk, he perched on the side table and studied the older man, noting his intense concentration on the front page of the _San Francisco Chronicle._

"What's caught your interest, Mike?" he questioned. "A new unsolved crime? A million-dollar robbery? The start of World war III?"

Stone laughed, "Nothing that serious, Buddy Boy." He shoved the paper at the young detective. "Here, take a look." He pointed to an article.

"_Black Sheep Reunion," _Keller read. "Black Sheep?" He shrugged his shoulders. "It's just some old World War II flyboys. What makes them so important?"

"They're just the fightingest bunch of United States Marine Corps pilots you'd ever want to meet!" Stone couldn't keep the pride from showing in his voice. "Here," he pointed, "Just look at that picture!"

Steve did as he was commanded. Then he stopped short. "Hey!" He indicated a young marine standing just in front of the wing of a battered Corsair fighter, "Is that you?"

"I knew all that college was good for something," Mike snickered. "I was a Black Sheep during the war. Served under Major Greg Boyington. It was back in 1943, just after Guadalcanal, and I was recovering from a shoulder wound. We were after a Japanese marauder, Washing Machine Charlie. Turned out to be almost more than we bargained for . . ."

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Black Sheep Base, Vella la Cava, 1943 **_

Sergeant Andy Micklin, chief mechanic, chewed the end of his ratty cigar as he studied the young corporal. "You said your name's Stone?" he growled. "I asked for a mechanic and they send me a mud Marine! You know anything about engines?"

"Cars. I can take any car engine apart blindfolded and put it back together."

"These aren't cars, buddy-boy! They're planes, Corsairs. And they're mine. Those college kids just fly them, but I own them." He fixed his new assistant with the kind of look you'd give a particularly nasty insect. "And I own you for the duration! If you can make it! Now, where'd you say your last duty station was? Some Mainland training base?"

"Guadalcanal."

"The Canal? Damn!" his attitude softened. "I was in the China campaign. Guys who served there had to be part commando, part Indian tracker, and 100 percent mean. Now c'mon. Lemme me introduce my planes."

Micklin and Stone walked down the flight line, the older man grousing about the rough treatment "those college flyboys" subjected his planes to. They stopped at one with 16 rising sun flags painted on its fuselage. "That's Boyington's plane. He got another one today. He'll be wanting another flag pronto."

"Guess that's my first job!"

"Got to watch out for subs around here, too," Micklin went on. "One of those Mosquito Fleet guys from Taratupa caught one down the channel last week. And then there's good old Washing Machine Charlie . . ."

"Washing Machine Charlie?" Mike looked suitably confused.

"Pilots an old Zeke. Engine's out of sync. Sounds like an old washing machine. The guy does a bombing run every afternoon around 1500. Never hits anything. The rest of the Zero pilots probably think he's a joke." Micklin checked his watch. "Ten minutes to go. Time to head for the bunker."

From the safety of the bunker, Mike watched as Charlie managed to knock down a couple of palm trees. He looked around to hear Major Greg "Pappy" Boyington's growl. "We're getting too comfortable with that guy. Someday he's gonna hit something besides the trees. And I don't mean that still you guys think you're hiding!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Taratupa PT Base**_

"Washington Machine Charlie! Washington Machine Charlie!" Captain Wallace B. Binghamton's voice reached near-hysterical levels. "That's all Admiral Rogers talks about. Washing Machine Charlie!"

The PT boat commanders ranged in front of the enraged captain's desk took a step back. Binghamton in full tirade wasn't a pretty sight. One of the officers was having difficulty stifling a grin.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, McHale," the captain roared. "All leaves are cancelled until Charlie is caught, sunk, demolished . . . " Binghamton stopped to take a breath. "And that means you, McHale."

"But . . . but . . . ," the barrel-chested officer began. "We were just getting ready to head for New Caledonia. We haven't had any real leave for two months!"

"And you won't get any until you knock Charlie out of the sky! Out on patrol and don't come back until you do. That's all, McHale. Take that crew of pirates you call Navy men and get underway."

_o-o-o-o-o_

"No leave? Old Leadbottom can't do that to us! We earned that leave!" Torpedoman Lester Gruber wound up for a classic rant. "Besides, Skip, we got all the souvenirs packed."

"Unpack 'em!" the peeved Skipper growled. "We gotta find Charlie's hideout, then we'll be able to write our own leave papers."

With more than a few curses aimed at the base commander, the crew began the tedious job of unpacking and repacking. Just what they needed - another patrol.

"Any idea where to hunt?" Executive Officer Chuck Parker questioned. "You know, I was really looking forward to meeting some of those cute French girls on New Caledonia. Virgil said he'd introduce me to some. I haven't had a date since . . ."

"Since when?" Tinker Bell, the 73 Boat's engineman and jack of all trades teased. "Kindergarten?" Parker blushed. The clumsy ensign's shyness was legendary.

The good-natured banter, punctuated by an occasional colorful complaint about Binghamton's orders, continued for a few moments, that is, until radioman Willy Moss popped out of the old boat's small cabin, excitement coloring his voice.

"Skip! Guys! Just intercepted a message from those Marine flyboys over on Vella la Cava. Charlie's been hitting them, too. Maybe we can work together; you know, help each other."

"Work together? With Marines?" Gruber snorted, "I'd rather work with the army."

"Knock it off, you meatheads. Someday we might even be working with the Air Force!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Vella la Cava**_

"Stone!" Micklin's bellow echoed the length of the small airfield. "The Old Man wants to see you! On the double!"

The young corporal headed for Pappy's tent and knocked on the pole. "Corporal Stone reporting, sir."

"Pappy," Boyington answered. "Everybody here calls me that. You might as well get used to it. Now, what do you know about Quinton McHale?"

Stone frowned. "McHale? He's a PT boat captain over on Taratupa. The old 73. Why?"

Boyington looked over a paper on the battered table that served as a desk. "You were in the hospital there. After Guadalcanal. Ever meet the guy?"

"Once or twice," Stone's confusion showed in his voice. "And I heard some pretty unbelievable stories."

"Stories?" The CO raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"That guy is a one-man Navy. He's got more hits than any other PT boat skipper in the South Pacific. Destroyers, submarines, Jap patrol boats, Zekes. You name it, he's sunk it. Don't know how he does it. He's aiming for an aircraft carrier next, or so I'm told." Stone paused, unsure if he should continue. Boyington's look told him he'd better.

"Old Leadbottom - that's Captain Binghamton, the base CO - keeps trying to get him and his crew court-martialed for what he calls 'unauthorized activities.' Seems his crew runs a floating casino, makes its own booze, commandeers supplies from the officers' club. But the captain can't do a thing to get rid of them. They're too good at knocking down the enemy. Any time Admiral Rogers has a special mission, he asks for McHale."

Pappy's laughter caught the younger Marine's attention. "Sounds like they'd fit right in with the Black Sheep. Anything else I should know?"

"Well," Stone considered, "From what I heard, McHale's been sailing these waters since he was a kid. Knows them as well as I know my old neighborhood back in the Potrero. Turns out he speaks a few languages, too, besides English, that is. Italian, German, Japanese, some of the Island dialects. And he's got an 'understanding' with old Chief Urulu on Taratupa. The chief gave him his own private island for a base."

"Private island?

"Yeah. Binghamton doesn't want McHale's crew contaminating the other PT boats," Stone chuckled. He thought for a minute, then questioned tentatively, "Why are you asking me all this . . . Pappy?" He sounded a bit uncomfortable with the use of his CO's nickname.

"Because he's coming here. He's been ordered to get Washing Machine Charlie and wants to make it a joint operation. You'll be working with him. Sounds like a better job for a mud Marine than helping Micklin polish the planes."

_Sarge isn't gonna like this. _The thought went unvoiced. "When does he get here?"

"Tomorrow," Pappy supplied. "I'll tell Micklin you're reassigned." Mike breathed a sigh of relief.

"Then I gotta tell the guys."

_o-o-o-o-o_

"We gotta do what!?" The Sheep Pen erupted with howls of disbelief. "Work with the Navy? Not even Navy pilots but some PT boat skipper with delusions of grandeur? What kind of record does he have? He's never been in a dogfight, probably wouldn't recognize a Zeke if it dropped a bomb right on his little rowboat!"

Pappy held up his hands for silence. The complaints continued. The CO grabbed a mug and smashed it on the table. That caught everyone's attention. The silence was deafening.

"McHale's no ninety-day wonder. He's sailed these waters for years, knows almost every island backwards, forwards, and inside out. He's been assigned by Admiral Rogers to get our pal Charlie and he's smart enough to know he'll need our help. So we're gonna give it to him – whether you flying misfits like it or not. And you're gonna like it!"

_o-o-o-o-o_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Act 2**_

"Coming up on Vella la Cava, Skip," crewman Christy called out. "There's supposed to be a dock just below the main base. Want me to tell Willy to radio ahead?"

"Yeah," the Skip answered. "And now hear this, all you guys," he bellowed, "Can the poker tournaments for the duration. And the dice games and souvenir sales. At least until we get to know these Black Sheep. They may be Marines, but we're on the same side!"

Gruber returned his special marked deck of cards to his pocket.

"Skip, Vella la Cava's on the horn." Willy's drawl broke into McHale's "instructions." Their CO's waiting for us on the dock. Looks like he's gonna want a conference ASAP."

"Just what we need, a spit-and-polish Marine officer." Gruber's disgruntled comment brought nods of agreement from the rest of the crew.

McHale's bellow cut off further complaints. "Straighten up, you meatheads! We're gonna show these guys how it's done in the Navy! If they want to help us, OK. If not, we'll do the job ourselves – and do it right!"

"And maybe collect a few more souvenirs while we're at it!" Gruber snickered, to the laughter of his shipmates.

_o-o-o-o-o_

Pappy Boyington watched as the 73 pulled smartly into the rickety dock. No need to keep the landing repaired – their supplies mostly came in by air. He wondered what his guys could requisition – _commandeer was more like it _- from the small boat's supplies.

A few of the squad wandered down, curiosity getting the better of them. "What a motley crew!" Don French snarked. "Is this the best the Navy has to offer? Maybe we could use that little dingy for a fishing boat!"

"Fishing for Charlie?" Anderson laughed. "They don't look like they could catch anything!"

"Only a few submarines and destroyers." Pappy's growl cut across the banter. "Give them a chance to settle in before you start any fights!" He studied the crew as they tied up. That gap-tooth, barrel-chested officer with Lt. Commander's oak leaves on his collar must be McHale. And there was a second officer? An ensign, from the looks of it. He watched as the young man tripped over a mooring line, only to be saved from falling by a blond-haired crewman. _If this is the Navy's best PT crew, we're in trouble. We'd be better off going after Charlie ourselves. Have to find some way to keep them busy and out of our way so we can do our job._

"Boyington?' The Skip's boisterous voice disturbed the Marine's thoughts. "Quinton McHale and PT 73 here. Seems we got to work together. Orders from your General and my Admiral." He extended a hand. Boyington shook. The man seemed as reluctant to work with his squad as the Black Sheep were to work with the sailors. The 73's crew and Boyington's men eyed each other warily. The undercurrent of tension reminded the Marine officer of a volcano on the verge of eruption. He knew his men. And McHale knew his. _Got to diffuse the tension._

"Welcome to Vella la Cava, Lt. Commander," Boyington emphasized his rival's rank. _Might as well let these guys know who's in charge right from the start. _ He motioned to a young marine. "Corporal Mike Stone. He'll be the liaison between your guys and mine. Anything you need, ask him. He'll take you to your quarters. It's pretty basic, but we're a forward fighter base, not a fancy command operation." He shrugged, adding as an afterthought, "Don't want any trouble between your guys and mine. Chow's at 1800 at the Sheep Pen. We cook tonight. Your turn tomorrow."

"Friendly bunch, aren't they?" one of the 73's crew muttered. McHale glowered at the man and turned back to Boyington. "You'll have to excuse my crew, Major. We were supposed to have a three day leave when we got orders to help you clean up this little mess with Charlie. You know, he's been hassling our base, too. Comes over every morning about 10 and drops one bomb. Someday he might actually hit something." The Skip's booming laugh broke the tension, at least for the present.

"Wish he'd hit Old Leadbottom's quarters," the lanky radioman snickered. The Black Sheep joined in the laughter. At least these sailors has a sense of humor.

_o-o-o-o-o_

"Over here's your quarters." Stone motioned towards a couple of old tents. "Mine aren't any better," he grinned apologetically as he rubbed his aching shoulder.

McHale studied the younger Marine. "Didn't I meet you on Taratupa? In the hospital? That time we . . . "

"Pulled that stunt on Captain Binghamton and convinced him he had some rare tropical illness?" Mike laughed. "Too bad he didn't. I never met a more incompetent officer. You'll probably make Admiral before he does!"

"You caught a bullet on Guadalcanal, didn't you?" Tinker broke into the conversation. "That was some fight. We managed to do a few supply runs and took some of you guys out of there when you needed more help than the medics could give."

"You were one of them," McHale realized. "You were pretty much out of it. How's that shoulder doing?"

"Better. Almost healed." Stone smiled, "I was too out of it to know what was going on. The wound got infected – happened to a lot of guys. I was one of the lucky ones, thanks to you."

"Guess that makes you an honorary member of the 73's crew," Gunner's Mate Virgil Edwards smiled. "That Purple Heart's gonna get you a lot of girls. They love a wounded hero!"

"I've already got one in mind!" Mike's laugh was contagious. "Come on, guys, sirs, I'll take you over to the Sheep Pen. Gotta warn you though, Bragg's cooking tonight. You guys might be better off with C-rations."

_o-o-o-o-o_

"Mike was right!" McHale thought as he experienced his first dinner at the Sheep Pen. Bragg tried hard, but his cooking was certainly nothing to brag about. Even worse than the food were the waves of antagonism he and the crew felt from the squadron - almost as if they were the enemy instead of Charlie. Boyington's men made no effort to keep him from hearing their comments: "The sooner we get Charlie and his Zeke, the sooner we can get our island back!"

Mike Stone felt his face redden with embarrassment. Sure, he was a Marine and proud of it, but the guys were carrying the gung-ho pilot spirit a bit too far. "Sorry, guys," he muttered softly, "They don't know the help you gave us on the Canal."

"Maybe we ought to show them what the Mosquito Fleet is made of!" An insulted Virgil took a swing at the nearest pilot. The man swung back. Plates flew to the floor; food splattered everywhere; noses were bloodied; eyes were blackened; a chair or two was splintered. It took all McHale, Boyington, and Stone could do to prevent serious injury.

"All right, you schlockmeisters! ENOUGH!" McHale's bellow and Pappy's fists finally brought the battle to a halt. "We're here to fight the enemy, not each other."

The embarrassed men backed off as the Skip went on, "I ought to . . . ought to transfer all of you to a garbage scow!" He smirked at his Marine counterpart. "Got one available?"

Pappy rubbed his sore fist. "Not at the present. How about you – all of you – get this place cleaned up? NOW!" The men jumped to obey. Pappy's bite was worse than his bark!

"Just one problem," the Marine continued. "Dinner's on the floor, the walls . . . What do we do for chow?"

"I can fix that," the Skip returned. "Parker! Go get Fuji. These guys need a real cook!" At Pappy's questioning look, he explained, "Fuji's our POW. He jumped ship and surrendered to us on Taratupa. Turns out he's one hell of a cook. We'll have a chef for the duration – give your guys a taste of real good food. It's the least we can do to make up for this little misunderstanding. Deal?"

Boyington grinned. "Deal! Clean-up first, while we plan a surprise for our friend Washing Machine Charlie! Then dinner!"

_o-o-o-o-o_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Act 3**_

Leaving their teams to clear up the mess – and Fuji to cook a real dinner – McHale, Boyington, and Stone headed for the communications tent. Pappy cleared a table and spread out a large map. He marked an "x" for Vella la Cava; McHale did likewise for Taratupa.

"Let's see," Pappy rubbed his chin. "He hits Vella at 1500 every afternoon."

"And Taratupa at 10 every morning." McHale marked the times on the map. "What else do we know? Does he have any more targets in this area?"

"Here, here, and here." The major marked the map and added the times. "0700, 1100, and 1500."

"And here and here." McHale indicated a couple of islands nearer to his own base. "0500 and 2100."

"Every day?" Stone questioned?

"Just about," came the responses.

Pappy studied the map. "We've got a problem. That number of hits on a daily basis is too many for one Zeke. We've got to be working with two or three planes."

"That means an island big enough for a landing strip and a place to hide those planes."

"Pardon me, Pappy, uhh, Skip." Mike broke in. "If we connect these islands, we get a roughly circular area,"

The pilot pointed to the map. "And the enemy base has to be somewhere around this cluster of islands!" He grinned at the PT boat commander. "You up for a little early morning recon flight?"

"0500?" McHale snarked.

"0500," Boyington confirmed. "I'll tell Micklin to have a two-seater surveillance plane fueled and ready."

_He's not gonna be happy! _Mike kept the thought to himself. _Guess I'm in for a late night. _He followed his CO to the airstrip.

_o-o-o-o-o_

Micklin was furious. _A plane! The Old Man wanted him to have a plane ready for take-off at 0500!_ His growl rivaled Binghamton at full rant! The irascible chief mechanic might be a legend as the best in the Corps, but his temper was even more legendary. "We'll have to work all night," he snarled. "Grab your tools, Stone. We're gonna strip that engine, overhaul it down to the last bolt. And all because some tugboat captain has a crazy idea that Charlie's got a secret base on some God-forsaken island out in the middle of the Pacific!"

Mike took a chance. "You're actually enjoying this, Sarge, aren't you?" Micklin gave his helper a "Watch it, buddy boy" look as the younger man went on, "You're a softy where your planes are concerned, so let's get busy. We old mud Marines gotta stick together."

"You ain't old, Kiddo," Micklin snickered as he chewed his cigar. "So get to work. We got a plane to take care of. Do your job right and someday you just might make sergeant." The curmudgeonly non-com chose a heavy adjustable wrench and went to work on the engine. He'd never admit it, but those planes were his babies. If they weren't 100%, they weren't going up!

_o-o-o-o-o_

"You're gonna do what?" Gruber's dropped five inches. "Go up in one of those flying rattletraps? The thing's guaranteed to crash! It's probably held together with baling wire and chewing gum."

Seven heads nodded in agreement. "If anything happens to you, where'll we be?" The usually quiet Christy spoke up, "Leadbottom will appoint a new CO and that means the end of everything. You know he won't let Mr. Parker take over." Noting the ensign's chagrinned look,, he added, "Sorry, sir. Didn't mean it the way it sounded."

McHale let the crew spout a few minutes longer, then interrupted, "Look, you guys, Boyington's flying that plane. He's the best pilot in the South Pacific, maybe in the whole damn war! Nothing's gonna happen. It's just a simple recon mission. Hell, I'll be back on time for breakfast, lunch at the latest. " He motioned to his young exec. "Chuck, you're in charge while I'm gone. Keep these guys out of trouble."

"And you be careful, Skipper-san," Fuji admonished.

_o-o-o-o-o_

Machinist Mate Tinker Bell couldn't sleep. He moved quietly and headed for the airstrip. _Don't want to wake up the guys or the Skip, but I gotta check out that flying bucket of bolts._ A bright light pinpointed the location of the plane. He headed in its direction.

" Who the hell are you? Whatcha want?" A gruff voice startled the sailor. He'd never heard the man sneak up behind him. He raised his hands as he felt something sharp poke him in the ribs.

"B-Bell," he stammered, "T-T-Tinker Bell. Machinist Mate First Class, PT 73, Sir. Just wanna make sure the plane's OK."

"Don't 'Sir' me!" the voice roared. "Sergeant Andy Micklin, USMC." He stressed the 'USMC.' "Drop your hands and turn around, nice and slow." Bell did as ordered. Micklin lowered the screwdriver he'd pressed in the sailor's back.

"So you're the chief mechanic on that old tuna boat? How do you manage to keep that thing running?"

Bell's temper flared. "About as well as you keep those planes flying!" He studied the grease-smeared Marines. "You look like you and that junior flyboy over there could use some help." He jerked a thumb in Stone's direction.

"And you're an expert?"

"Best in the Mosquito Fleet. Now, do ya want my help or not?"

Micklin grinned and extended his hand. He recognized a brother mechanic when he saw one. "Grab a wrench and let's get back to work. We got us a plane to get ready!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

_0430._ McHale stifled a yawn as he walked to the small airstrip and inspected the two seater. Three grease-smeared faces looked up at him. Stone he recognized. The one chewing the cigar must be Micklin. The third – Bell? What was Tinker doing here?

"Morning, Skip," the Machinist Mate greeted his CO. "Just making sure these guys got that plane shipshape!" He dodged as Micklin aimed a friendly swat in his direction.

"You got yourself one good engine man," the crusty sergeant complimented. "You ever get tired of him in the Navy, just put him on a transport and send him to me. We can get him transferred to the Corps easy."

McHale's booming laugh scared the local sea birds into flight. "Sorry, Sarge. Can't keep the old 73 boat running without him." He looked around. "Thought Boyington'd be here by now. Pre-flight checkup, ya know."

"I'm here, Commander." Pappy was all business. He handed McHale a parachute and inflatable vest. "Put these on. You know how to use one, don't you? Not that you're gonna need it, but just in case . . ."

"I know, I know. Jump. Count to ten. Pull the cord."

The marine grinned. "You'll do OK . Climb aboard and let's get this crate in the air. Got to show you a few things first." He briefed McHale on the use of the on-board camera. "You handle the pictures, I'll handle the flying!"

Stone closed the canopy as the two men settled into their seats. He didn't close it quite fast enough to shut out Micklin's roar: "You bring my plane back in one piece!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

Stone, Bell, and Micklin watched as the plane circled out of sight. The sergeant chewed his battered cigar for a minute, then muttered, "We got about an hour before the patrol takes off. Let's see what's for chow."

The men headed for the Sheep Pen. Stone stopped short. "Bacon? Do I smell bacon?"

"You're dreaming, Kiddo. We ain't had real bacon for a couple of months." They pushed through the door to find themselves greeted by a smiling Fuji.

"How you guys like your eggs? Scrambled? Sunny side up?" Fuji was in his element. "Gruber got us some good chow."

Gruber had the grace to look embarrassed. "Heard there was a bunch of Seabees setting up a base on the other side of the island, so Virge, Willy, and me, well, we borrowed a jeep and went and challenged them to a friendly game of poker. Mr. Parker seemed to think it was OK. Course, we only told him after we got back."

"Hot-wired that jeep is more like it!" Micklin's laugh broke any tension. "I'd charge you swabbies for the gas, but I'll take three eggs sunny side up, toast, bacon, and . . ." He stopped as a new aroma filled his nostrils. " . . . Is that real coffee? Hell, those Seabees eat pretty good." He grinned at his two helpers, "Dig in, guys. We're gonna have some planes to fix when the morning patrol gets back, if they can tear themselves away from my pal Fuji's cooking!"

Captain Larry Casey blushed at Micklin's cracks. He was in charge of the morning patrol. "Finish up, guys. Grab your gear and down to the field in 30! We'll be back for lunch."

_o-o-o-o-o_

Bouncing over the open sea in a PT boat at full throttle was one thing; bouncing around the sky in an old two-seater with Pappy's stunt flying was something else. McHale was glad he hadn't eaten any breakfast. "An hour out, thirty minutes or so for recon, and another hour back," Pappy had said. Three hours more or less and they'd have what they needed to put Charlie and company out of business. Now if this orange crate would only stop bouncing! McHale was sure Boyington was doing it on purpose. _Just wait till I take him for a ride on the 73!_

The pilot motioned to his passenger, then pointed downward. McHale readied the cameras as they swooped over the island. No planes in sight – probably already out on their morning bombing runs – but a small airstrip, radio shack, and three or four tents nestled among the trees. Just enough for a base for Charlie and his buddies. They'd have more details when they got that film developed back on Vella. Pappy made one more run. A few more recon photos wouldn't hurt. Then a quick turn and head home. They'd probably been seen, but that couldn't be helped. So many planes flew over these islands that they'd most likely be ignored.

_o-o-o-o-o_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Act 4**_

Pappy spread the enlarged photos out on the table in the radio shack. He and McHale studied them intently. "Here," the PT boat commander pointed. "Those tents are large enough for four men each. Three tents, twelve men. Over here - fuel tanks and supplies. Looks like they're planning for a long stay."

"There's a radio shack and a field kitchen," Pappy added, "And enough space for three planes. One's there under camouflage. The other two must be out on their morning run."

"Maybe more than just a 'morning run,'" McHale considered. "Recon, maybe? Or a distraction to put us off guard?"

"You could have something there. Charlie's antics have become almost routine. There must be something else behind them."

The sound of planes landing alerted both men to the patrol's return. "Let's get Casey's report." He signaled the man on com duty, "Wiley, go get Larry here ASAP."

"OK, Casey," Boyington questioned his exec, "Report! Everybody back OK?" At Casey's two thumbs up, he continued, "See anything interesting?"

"Awfully quiet out there, Pappy," the blonde officer replied. "No Zekes, just some ships on the horizon. Possibly a carrier and a couple of destroyers. Oh, yeah, and one PT boat out fishing!"

"It didn't have a 73 on the bow, did it?" The Skip was pretty sure it did. "Guess we'll be having fresh tuna for dinner."

"OK, you guys," the Marine CO snickered. "Call a meeting for 1100. That should give our sailors time to get back and clean those fish."

_o-o-o-o-o_

The two teams gathered in the Sheep Pen as Fuji served sandwiches - New York deli sandwiches, of all things - canned fruit, and coffee, lots of coffee. The men munched as the photos were handed around.

"Comments? Ideas?" Boyington opened the conversation.

"Why not just trash the base? Now that we know where it is." French's suggestion was received with approving nods. "There's that Army Air Force bomber squadron, the 504th, temporarily based at Espritos. Would give them something to do."

"And let them get all the glory?" Anderson's response was laced with indignation. "You wanna let the Air Force get the credit? This is a job for Marines!"

"And the Navy!" Christy yelled. "Those pilots've been harassing us, too! One of them got Tinker's still last week! They fly just out of range of our guns."

"They come in on a different course every time. By the time we get in close, they're gone," Wiley added.

McHale let the talk continue for a few minutes before breaking in. "Maybe we could capture that base. There might be codes, plans, other stuff we could use. We've done it before. It might give us an idea of what they're really up to."

Every Black Sheep in the room, Boyington included, looked at the sailors with disbelief.

"You mean like when we got that Kraut submarine last month?" Gruber looked like he was ready to tell the whole story. The Black Sheep certainly looked ready to listen.

"That's a story for another time, " McHale short-circuited the Torpedoman. "But, yeah, we did

sink it and capture the small base they were supplying. We could disguise the 73 as an old fishing boat and land on that island, 'specially if your boys provide air cover."

"So what happens when you land on that island? How do you expect to fool the Japanese?

"Fuji!" McHale laughed.

"You want me to help, Skipper-san?"

"Why not?" the Skip nodded. "I'll even promote you to first mate."

"But Fuji's a POW!' one of Boyington's squad objected.

The little sailor looked the man in the eye. "I'm studying to become an American. I can tell you all about George Washington and how he chopped down that cherry tree and beat the British and Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt and . . ." The men laughed as the young cook prepared to recite everything he'd learned about American history. " . . . And I'm going to open a restaurant in San Diego, best Chinese restaurant in the country!"

"Let's hear it for Chef Fuji!" Casey cheered their cook's enthusiasm.

Boyington signaled for attention. "OK, we disguise the 73 and its crew and they take the island. What about us?

"They've got a landing strip, don't they?" McHale answered. "Get on the ground, plant some charges, blow up the planes, capture anyone you find. You got a brig here, don't you?"__

"Yeah!" one of the pilots answered, "But the only guy Pappy's thrown in there was Micklin, for disrespecting an officer!" The Sheep Pen erupted in laughter.

"And you college boys better respect my planes, or me and my buddy here," Micklin swatted Stone on the back, "We're gonna show you what real mud Marines are made of!"

"All right, boys!" McHale's bellow could stop a cavalry charge. "We got a lot of work to do if we wanna put Charlie out of business! Christy, Virgil, get to work on the boat. Gruber, get some civvies for everyone, including Fuji. Willy, you monitor radio communications. You pick up anything in Japanese, call me or Fuji. Chuck, you go with them. Tink, give Micklin and Stone a hand."

A chorus of "Aye, aye, Skips" and the 73's crew set off to work.

Pappy motioned to his men. "Check your gear. I want everything in top shape. Casey, you'll work with me on flight plans." To McHale, "We might need some extra man power. Think those Seabees could give us a hand?"

"Why not?" the Skip grinned. "The guys caught enough tuna to feed a small army. A good dinner will go a long way to make up for losing a poker game! I know their CO—he owes me a favor or two. Guess it's time to call 'em in!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

Several long, busy hours later – barring time out for Charlie's usual raid and Fuji's barbequed tuna dinner – the two teams and a dozen Seabees gathered in the Sheep Pen for a final mission briefing.

McHale and his crew would approach from the landing near the enemy base; the Seabees, from a nearby secluded cove; Pappy and three of his men would strafe the planes, then land and join in the round-up. Five other Black Sheep would maintain air patrol. The Navy men would pull out at 0300; the pilots, three hours later. Stone would go with McHale, "You were at the Canal," McHale noted. "You know what to watch out for."

Boyington watched as the men drifted off to their quarters. McHale, too keyed up to sleep, joined him in a cup of strong black coffee. "Good working with you, Major. You've got a great bunch of pilots. Glad you're on our side."

"Same here." Pappy finished his coffee and headed for his quarters. "Better get some shut-eye. See you at Charlie's tomorrow, Quint."

"_Definitely on our side," McHale thought. "He'd make a good PT skipper, if he wasn't such a great pilot."_

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Note: **The capture of the German submarine mentioned by Torpedoman Gruber is taken from the McHale's Navy episode "McHale and His Schweinhunds (Season 2, episode 3). _

_The 504th bomber squadron was actually stationed in the Marianas. In the fanfic world, it is better known as Colonel Hogan's squadron prior to his adventures at Stalag 13._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Act 5**_

_0300: _PT 73 quietly slipped away from the dock and headed for her target. With her crew in civvies, her number painted over, odd colors of paint splashed here and there on her hull, decks heaped with old nets, and crates hiding depth charges scattered around, she looked like any one of a number of nondescript fishing boats common in these islands. The Seabees, accompanied by a tall, dark-haired lieutenant, followed in another small craft. They'd take a slightly different course to their landing site.

"Now remember you guys," McHale instructed the crew, "We're fishermen. Anybody asks, we got this old wreck from Chief Urulu and we split any profits with him."

"Urulu's the biggest con man in the South Pacific," Christy laughed. "He's almost as good as Gruber!"

"Knock it off!" the CO admonished as the laughter grew louder. "Don't want to alert the enemy in case anyone's around. They might be doing some fishing of their own. And remember – Fuji and I will handle the talking."

"Might as well do some fishing then," Parker added as he picked up a pole. "I remember catching trout in the streams back home in Chagrin Falls . . ." The young ensign was lost in the realm of childhood memories.

"Better show him how it's done," Willy's hillbilly drawl caught the Skip's attention.

"Good idea, Willy. Gruber, Virgil. Grab a pole and join them at the gunnels. And don't let Mr. Parker fall overboard!"

A couple of hours – and seven good-sized fish – later, the 73 pulled into a small dock. McHale counted two planes; the third was out on its run. Two soldiers approached, rifles at ready. The Skip nodded at Fuji, who picked up a particularly fine fish and showed it to the guards.

"_Konichiwa! We're fishermen from another island. You want to buy fresh fish? Just caught this morning." _He held out the catch for inspection.

The two guards motioned to a third man, probably the cook. He and Fuji began to haggle on the price. Fuji took his time, talking about the many ways to cook it. He'd gotten as far as wrapping it in banana leaves and slow-roasting it in a deep pit oven, when he was interrupted by the drone of planes overhead. The Black Sheep, coming in for a landing!

The surprised guards scanned the skies, hunting for the invaders. At McHale's sudden command, _Don't move! Drop those rifles!,"_ they looked at the old boat, only to find themselves facing an armed crew. No choice! No time for any action. They dropped their guns and raised their hands, A few minutes, they were secured and under guard on the 73's deck

"_Traitor!" _one of then hissed at Fuji.

The little cook looked him in the eye. _"No. American!" _The pride in his voice brought a smile to McHale's face. He vowed he'd see his young friend become a citizen.

"OK, guys," the Skip ordered, "Our reinforcements are here. Stone, you go with Pappy and help set the charges. Christy, take a camera and get some shots of those planes before we blow them to Kingdom come! Willy, Tinker, with me. Fuji, Virgil, Gruber, stay on board and pay attention

to anything our prisoners say. Chuck, man the radio! Got it, everybody?" A successful landing accomplished; now for the next phase of the operation.

_o-o-o-o-o_

Boyington watched as the disguised 73 pulled in. _Right on time! _A wiggle of his wings and four Corsairs swooped in for a landing. Stone helped lift the canopies and the men headed for the encampment.

"They've seen us come in, so we've lost the element of surprise," He yelled for Mike to grab some charges. "You guys, too," he barked at some of the Seabees. After all, those guys worked with explosives. "Take care of those planes! Let Christy get his pictures, then blast 'em!"

He signaled to his boys and the remaining Seabees, "Let's head for the tents. We've got two pilots and ground crew to take care of! The guys upstairs can handle that last Zeke when it comes in."

Pappy's army circled through the underbrush, approaching the encampment from the rear. No time to worry about the guys at the planes-his marines could handle themselves, the Seabees, and the enemy. Which they did. Easily. Two pilots, three mechanics, and one off duty radioman turned in surprise as a thundering herd of Marines and sailors charged the rear of their tents. No time for the code of "death before surrender." They dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

"Search 'em, then tie 'em up." Pappy's terse command was quickly obeyed. Their prisoners were secured and herded out to the center of the camp.

"Get that flag down! Pronto!" Pappy pointed at the Rising Sun still fluttering over the small encampment. "This is now an American base!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

McHale, Willy, and Tinker headed for the radio shack. The tall lieutenant joined them. "McGarrett, Naval Intelligence," he introduced himself. "Look for code books!"

"Already taken care of," McHale growled. "Willy's our radioman. He knows what to look for. If there's anything we can use, he'll find it."

Only two men were in the radio shack, the radio operator and the base commander, both quickly subdued. No one could punch like an angry McHale! Tinker tied their latest prisoners while Willy and McGarrett dumped maps, documents, and code books into a couple of canvas bags.

"Good haul, Skip," the 73's radio operator drawled. "These code books are worth a fortune!"

A bemused McGarrett could only nod. "I'm glad you're with us!" Not the first time McHale and his boys had heard that statement.

"Got everything?" McHale questioned. "Take our prisoners out of here and blow this shack sky high!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

As the landing party gathered down by the dock, a distant crackle of gunfire caught their attention: a puff of dark smoke and the sight of a parachute opening marked the fall of the last Zero. "We'll pick him up," one of the Seabees grinned, "And add him to the collection."

A minute or two later, a series of explosions signaled the end of Washing Machine Charlie's base and an end of the daily runs. "Better head home," McHale said with a hearty laugh. "We'll inform Admiral Rogers, but you'll need to call that general of yours. Protocol, you know!" Then, to the Naval Intelligence officer, "We'll take the code books and maps with us to Vella la Cava. I guess the admiral will want them."

McGarrett nodded. " My CO, too. But I want to see them first!"

"Soon as Pappy and I are done with 'em!" McHale joked. They all knew that their booty would be handed over to the proper authorities ASAP. They'd be lucky to get a mention for capturing those papers!

_o-o-o-o-o_

Dinner in the Sheep Pen was a real feast. Polynesian-style fish, roast pork, ice cream donated by the Seabees, fresh pineapple – Pappy didn't want to know where or how McHale's crew had acquired that! _I wonder if Fuji has any friends who'd like to jump ship and join my squad?_

Bragging and "Did you see's . . .?" and laughter over a perfect operation had faded into typical inter-service bragging, when a loud "ATTENTION!" caught the men by surprise. _Admiral Rogers? General Moore? What were they doing here? We must have been having too much fun to hear them land.!_

Black Sheep, Seabees, PT crewmen, a Naval Intelligence officer, and one young mud Marine snapped to attention at once. Fuji ducked behind a counter. Salutes were offered and returned. This was unexpected!

"McHale! Boyington! McGarrett!" the admiral barked, "What's this unauthorized operation? Explain!"

"Well, Admiral Rogers, sir," McHale began, his gift of gab deserting him for once, "Captain Binghamton was getting tired of Washing Machine Charlie's little raids, so he told us to go get him. Since we're just sailors, not pilots like the major and his boys, we decided to ask for a little help. Then the Seabees wanted in on the fun…"

A roar of laughter from the flag officers interrupted the Skip's rambling explanation. "And a good job you all made of it! Well done! The documents you picked up will be invaluable. We believe Charlie is a distraction to cover up a new operation. You may have helped save a lot of sailors and Marines."

"We brought some guards with us, so we'll relieve you of your prisoners," General Moore added. "There will be commendations for all of you!"

"And leave for us?" Gruber broke into the conversation.

Admiral Rogers' eyes twinkled. "As soon as you get the 73 looking like a Navy ship again!"

"And repack our souvenirs," Gruber mumbled sotto voce.

"And as soon as you pack those souvenirs!" Rogers confirmed with a smile.

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Epilogue: SFPD, 1973**_

"Mike, that's some story!" Steve Keller knew his partner had been a Marine, but he hadn't heard much about Stone's time in the service. "Did you stay with the Black Sheep?"

"Only for a few months. Micklin wanted to keep me, but the Corps had other ideas. I was sent back Stateside for specialized training, then got assigned to a JAG unit in Italy late in 1944. Guess that's where I got a taste for police work. Ran into McHale there, too. The Navy transferred his squad to the Mediterranean. Heard some real interesting stuff about some of his adventures."

"Ya know, I'd really like to meet those guys. They must have some great stories!"

"Then what are you waiting for, Buddy Boy?" Mike said as he grabbed his coat and settled his old fedora on his head. "Get your jacket. There's a bunch of flyboys and a PT boat skipper I'd like you to meet!"

_o-o-o-o-o_

_Lt. Steve McGarrett is borrowed from the original Hawaii Five-O. That series belongs to CBS. No copyright infringement is intended,_


End file.
